Two Edged Swords
by beesandbrews
Summary: The afternoon after they return home from a case, John cooks breakfast while Sherlock ponders changes to his way of thinking under the influence of his new flatmate. Set during series one.


The scent of coffee hangs on the air. Still groggy from twelve hours of sleep, Sherlock follows it, his eyes only half opened and his sight bleary, to the kitchen. John is there, seated at the table. He's unshaven and dressed in faded jeans and a grey sweatshirt. His laptop is open and he's poking at buttons with one hand while he lifts a mug to his lips with the other.

The aroma of toasting bread mingles with the scent of coffee. Sherlock's stomach growls loudly and then clenches until it feels like it's hugging his spine. Food becomes a priority, even more so than social niceties like wishing John 'good morning' or more appropriately, 'good afternoon'. The toaster pops. He grabs a slice as it becomes visible, wincing as it burns his fingertips.

"Hello to you, too." John shuts the lid on his computer and puts down his cup before rising. He bumps Sherlock's arm with his as he gets a plate from the cupboard and holds it underneath the dangling slice of toast. "Butter and jam are on the table. Sit down. I'll make you some eggs." He re-enforces his instructions with a gentle shove.

Sherlock frowns but complies. He sits down and contemplates the butter dish and the jam pot for a moment before applying lashings of both to his toast. John puts a mug of coffee in front of him and then starts pulling items from the fridge.

Something isn't quite right about the scene, but he's still far too sleep-drugged to work out what it is. He drinks coffee and eats toast, salty with butter and sweet with preserved strawberries, and watches as John puts a skillet on the stove and then cracks eggs into a bowl, whisking them to a uniform shade of yellow. He puts butter in the skillet and adjusts the heat before returning to the fridge to pull out more ingredients; cheese and bacon and sausages, tomatoes halves and mushroom slices heaped in a bowl.

He spreads melted butter around one pan and adds a dollop of oil to another. From the cupboard he retrieves a tin of beans and soon all the burners are full. John occupies the time when he's not fussing over the cooker by making more toast.

Caffeine and sugar work their magic. "Where did the food come from?" Sherlock asks, finally putting his finger on what is wrong with the domestic scene. "The fridge was empty when we left for Lincolnshire."

They'd been gone for a week, unravelling a frustrating case of judicial murder. The victim had been far from angelic, but his killer had violated his oath to uphold the law. It had been a satisfactory feeling to turn him over to his colleagues knowing they had no desire to be tarnished by the same accusations and that justice would finally be meted out, delayed but appropriately severe.

"I emailed Mrs Hudson as soon as we got on the train. I'll still need to shop properly, but she bought us enough to get by until then."

Ah, that explains much, Sherlock thinks to himself. There is steam coming from the pan the bacon and sausages are cooking in, a sure sign the sausages will be poached in brine from an inferior brand of bacon. No doubt the sausages will be equally disappointing, containing more filler than pork. Mrs Hudson, out of a well meaning but misplaced sense of economy, had stretched their housekeeping money by cutting ill-considered corners. He consoles his stomach with a bite of toast piled high with plump berries that taste of Spring. The jam, at least, doesn't disappoint.

John lays slices of cheese on his half cooked omelette and then tries to fold it. He pokes around the edges, but it's clear that the egg is going to stick. Frustrated, he turns the heat down and puts a lid on top and then prods at the other pots and pans with a spoon and a spatula.

Sherlock refrains from offering pointers learnt during the summer he spent under the tutelage of a Michelin chef. It hadn't been a happy period in his life. More than once he'd contemplated deleting the memories of those months entirely. But there'd been triumphs along with the bitter failures and all of the experiences, both good and ill, had proved over the fullness of time to be valuable, so he'd filed the summer away in a back corridor of his memory palace, naming the little room with the black door 'lessons hard won'.

Under the influence of toast the constriction in his belly eases but it doesn't stop the teasing scents that promise a more substantial meal from becoming maddening. John seems to read his mind. He drops another slice of toast over the crumbs of the first and then starts to fill plates with the rest of the food.

"Here." John carries laden plates to the table, goes back to the counter for the rest of the toast and a bottle of brown sauce, and finally sits down.

"You've excelled yourself," Sherlock says. He takes his first experimental bite and his stomach thanks him.

The heat under the eggs had been too high. As a result the omelette is chewy rather than delicate. The edges are frayed where John had fought to dislodge it from the pan. The cheese inside isn't properly melted. It's smooth in some places and rubbery in others. The mushroom slices are so uneven in width that Chef Paul would have dumped them into the bin rather than serve them to his guests; offended on their behalf by the lack of uniformity. Only the tomatoes would have passed muster – sautéed to a turn, the faces just starting to caramelize – because Chef preferred good tomatoes plain with a hint of salt and pepper rather than hidden under a camouflage of herbs.

The imperfections are immaterial. They eat with gusto. John because he loves to eat and Sherlock because days of deprivation have sharpened his appetite and given him an appreciation for even the most humble offerings. Not that he would call John's offering humble. Homely perhaps, because it is a solid meal – inferior ingredients not withstanding – that has been cooked with good intentions, if not a chef's expertise.

He smiles into his coffee mug. John looks up from his plate. He's got a mushroom speared on the end of his fork and he stops with it halfway to his mouth. "What is it?"

"It was a fortunate day when Stamford introduced us," Sherlock extemporises, caught out. "I had no idea I would be lodging with both an accurate marksman and an excellent cook."

John's fork wavers mid-air and then it returns to his plate. He shuffles his food around, mashes the mushroom slice against a tomato half, and then picks it up again. When he looks up, he's smiling.

The smile is a welcome sight, it means John is no longer brooding. The case up north had been a challenge to them both. For Sherlock, because he hated dealing with stupid people who thought themselves clever, and for John, because those who should have behaved honourably had not and thus had violated their duty of care.

Despite their success, the trip home had been subdued. John withdrew into himself as he sometimes did when he found the world a disappointing place. Sherlock did the same, mulling the question of how a hardened soldier could retain his sense of naivete and was that a character strength or a flaw, until he was lulled to sleep by the vibration of the train over the tracks as it carried them home.

Sherlock smiles too. He is pleased that John is no longer troubled. It's a peculiar feeling and he stores it away to contemplate at a better time. He doesn't understand why – yet, but for some reason, John's feelings matter.

Like the others in Sherlock's closely knit circle John takes his turn, acting as whipping boy or target as the situation warrants. But unlike the rest, when tempers have cooled and frustrations have been abated, it's not enough to move on without comment. Sherlock's rarely listened to conscience nags and makes him uncomfortable. He feels a strong compulsion to apologise and somehow make amends. To shut up the annoying voice in his head, he offers compliments, even if they're slightly deceitful, and he tries to be nice. Because if he does then John's eyes will light up and he will give Sherlock a smile that says all is forgiven and everything between them is all right. And then, for just a little while, Sherlock's world is a better place too.

He glances down at his plate, surprised to find it empty.

"I can make more," John offers.

Sherlock shakes his head. He is replete and sleepy. The large meal will take time and energy he doesn't yet have to digest. He yawns hugely.

His yawn is met by another smile. Chagrined, he realises he's been tricked into a day of leisure. If there are any clients, John has decided they can wait. The remainder of the afternoon will be filled with nothing more strenuous than debating the merits of Chinese or Indian takeaway whilst flipping channels on the telly. In the meantime, a nap seems to be in order. He rises from the table, carrying his plates and cup to the sink to join the pans already soaking there. He starts to wash up, but John takes the sponge from his hand. "I've got this. You go put your feet up."

Out of habit Sherlock's hackles rise and he makes a grab for the sponge. It's an old, misplaced reaction leftover from too many people; parents, nannies, teachers, his brother, telling him what to do.

The skin around John's eyes crinkles for a moment and then he makes his move, snatching the sponge back. Sherlock grabs a cloth from the counter and uses it to flick soapy water out of the sink.

The water fight is brief, but deadly. They are both covered in grungy suds at its end, as is the floor and much of the rest of the kitchen. John holds up his hands in defeat as he looks down at his dishwater spotted sweatshirt. "If it means that much to you, by all means, be my guest." He smirks. "Of course that means I get the first shower!"

He trots off, grinning. Sherlock looks down at himself, dabs fruitlessly at the mess he's made of his dressing gown, and then shakes his head, bemused at his behaviour. He wants to blame John, but knows he can't. It's his own contrary nature that's got him into this mess, his inability to accept kindness for its own sake.

He is innately suspicious. In the past his suspicion – his inability to take things at face value – has always served him well. But perhaps, like John's innocence, it's a two edged sword. He begins to mop up the mess from the water fight and realises that once again John has challenged his assumptions and given him something new to think about.

He cleans and scrubs counters, cabinets and floor before regarding the dishes. Washing them by hand seems ample penance for rebuffing John's generosity with churlishness. He makes quick work of the plates and the cups and the cutlery before starting in on the pans and pots. As he scrubs away stuck on eggs and caked baked beans Sherlock wonders if he hasn't been tricked again as the off-key singing of a crowd showing their team spirit begins to waft in from the living room.

He peeks through the divider and stifles a groan. John is sprawled in his favourite chair. He's got the remote firmly in hand and a contented smile on his face, and it's obvious, short of an assault by Scotland Yard, that the rest of the afternoon will be spent watching football.


End file.
